The Bellingham Bloodbath

by Harris, Gregory

  “How dare you!” he yelled, and then, quite unexpectedly, fell silent.

  Not another sound emanated from within for several minutes, although a reflective glow from several lamps could now be seen through the prism of glass set high in the door. I fully expected Colin to launch himself into another attack, but he held himself still, and after longer than even my patience could bear the door finally swung open to reveal Lady Stuart wrapped in a burgundy night coat, her thick black hair tied back with a ribbon of the same color. In spite of our appalling intrusion and the ferocity with which her father had tried to repel us, she managed to offer a generous smile that looked as inviting as it did genuine.

  “Come in,” she said, stepping back, a candelabra held aloft. “I must apologize for the ill-mannered greeting, but we are not used to visitors at this hour.”

  “It ain’t right!” her father snapped from somewhere in the darkness behind her.

  “That will do,” she said without pretense as she led us back to the study. “Why don’t you go and fetch us some tea.”

  “You mustn’t make a fuss,” Colin insisted. “It is enough that we are here at such an hour.”

  “Nonsense.” She waved her father off, garnering a sneer before he turned and strode from the room, swinging his lamp angrily. “It will give him something to do besides glare at us.”

  We settled ourselves for a moment while Lady Stuart lit several more lamps, but before she could turn the room into any sort of blazing normalcy Colin could contain himself no longer and started in. “You mustn’t go to any more trouble. We won’t stay but the time it takes to show you what we have brought. And then . . .” He let his voice trail off, but she did not seem to hear the threat lingering there.

  “It is simple enough to make a guest feel welcome,” she said easily. “It doesn’t matter the hour of the day.” She laid a couple logs atop the embers in the fireplace and poked them back to life, instantly releasing a bit of warmth into the chilled space. I was grateful for the heat and found myself relaxing in spite of my inherent tension at being here. “I am certain . . . ,” she said as she slid the fireplace screen back into place and sat down, “. . . that the two of you wouldn’t be here if it was not urgent.”

  “I appreciate your faith,” Colin answered simply. “And you are correct.” He nodded toward me and I pulled Captain Bellingham’s letter from my jacket pocket. “We were shown a letter this evening that was written to you by Captain Bellingham. He composed it three or four months ago and gave it to his attaché with explicit instructions that the lad deliver it to you should anything happen to him. While it was meant for your eyes only, I am sorry to tell you that a major in Her Majesty’s Life Guard took it upon himself to open it this evening once its existence became known. The letter”—he nodded to me again and I handed it to her—“would seem to discount some of your previous statements.”

  Her brow pinched as she glanced down at the missive and read it, her eyes flicking across its few lines rapidly. Once finished, she went back to the top and read it again, poring more carefully over it the second time. Only then did she finally look over at Colin and say, “This letter may have been intended for me, but it was not written by Trevor.”

  “No?” Colin’s face revealed nothing.

  “It is not his handwriting.” She stood up and went over to a desk on the far side of the room, pulling it open to reveal several small drawers and a host of cubbies too numerous to count. She reached in and seized a thick packet of folded papers tied together with a ribbon. With the letter in one hand and the folded notes in her other, she came back and handed it all to Colin.

  “See for yourself,” she said. “These are all from Trevor. There”—she pointed to the bottom of the one Colin had flipped open—“you can see his signature.”

  He turned the note toward me and I could indeed see Trevor’s name scribbled across the bottom in a smooth, fluid hand. His writing appeared languid and unhurried, strikingly different from that in the letter he had given to Corporal Blevins. But while the card was nothing more than an enquiry for an invite, the letter had clearly been written in a state of immense agitation. I couldn’t help but think the hand of any person would change under such circumstances.

  I suspected Colin was mulling the same possibility as I watched him flip through the handful of notes Lady Stuart had given him. He kept glancing back and forth as he sorted through them, and when he reached the bottom of the stack he slid the whole of the writings to me before standing up and wandering over to the fireplace.

  I studied the handwriting on the letter as I peered from one note to the next, all innocuous blather about visiting, or thanks, or the impending inclement weather. None of it compared to the desperate wrath contained in the note Corporal Blevins had been entrusted with. Yet even so, I could find no similarities. There were stark differences in the capital letters and subtler divergences in much of the rest. By the time I looked up again I understood what Colin had seen. It was exactly as Lady Stuart had said—the vitriolic letter had not been written by Captain Bellingham at all.

  “Then who wrote this?” I asked.

  Colin turned from the fireplace and leveled his gaze on Lady Stuart. “Do you know?”

  “I give you my word that I haven’t the faintest notion.”

  His eyes remained fixed on her. “Then why did he want this brought to you?”

  “Surely I’ve made that clear by now. Trevor and I were like family. He knew he could count on me if something were to happen to him. To see that his honor would be upheld or his family taken care of—” Her voice faltered as she looked away, her eyes momentarily reflecting the firelight. “If I knew anything . . .”

  Colin stood there, staring at her, the two of them looking as though engaged in a contest of wills before he quietly asked, “This letter is written to Captain Bellingham, isn’t it?”

  She glanced away and released a burdened sigh before finally answering, “Yes.”

  “Was it someone in his regiment?”

  “I don’t know. He would never tell me.”

  “Did his wife know?”

  Her gaze softened as she looked back at the fireplace and I thought she might be on the verge of tears, but when she spoke her voice remained strong and clear. “In the end, she must have suspected.”

  Lady Stuart’s father abruptly shuffled in with a rattling tray of cups, saucers, spoons, creamer, sugar, and a pot with an ill-fitting lid. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the room as he set the things with a heavy thud onto the table and began pouring. “Do ya take cream and sugar?” he mumbled without looking up.

  “We have imposed enough already,” Colin said, catching Lady Stuart’s eye. “I apologize for having interrupted the middle of your night this way. You have been most gracious.”

  “I only wish I knew more,” she said.

  Her father looked up with irritation. “You’re not staying for tea?”

  “We cannot.” And with that, Colin nodded to Lady Stuart and headed for the door. “Sorry about your efforts,” he added without conviction. “We shall see ourselves out.” Lady Stuart looked stricken as I walked past her, the toll of what she had told us evident on her ashen face.

  As soon as we passed beneath the nearest street lamp I took a moment to yank out my watch and was disheartened to discover it nearly one o’clock. I had little more than four hours before I was to meet Corporal Bramwood outside of Buckingham to return the captain’s letter to him. “Shouldn’t we get a cab?” I sighed heavily.

  “Yes,” Colin muttered under his breath. “We’re certainly not walking all the way to the Irish barracks.”

  “Where?”

  “We must pay another visit to Sergeant Mulrooney. The extent of his distaste for his brother-in-law seems quite clear now. He owes us some answers.”

  With exhaustion weighing heavily upon my brain, I longed to protest, but the incessant ticking of the watch stowed deep within my pocket assured me that there would be no rest
tonight.

  CHAPTER 32

  Sergeant Mulrooney was furious. We had presented ourselves at the Chelsea Barracks, not far from Parliament on Chelsea Bridge Road, and made our presence known to the officer in charge. While he had been quite disturbed by our reprehensibly late intrusion, reminding us repeatedly that it was after one in the morning, he had agreed to allow us access to Sergeant Mulrooney after Colin mentioned the Bellingham murders, Scotland Yard, and our sovereign herself, referring to her vaguely as the increasingly alarmed Mrs. Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. That had finally forced the man to jump to the obvious conclusion without Colin having to completely perjure himself. Nevertheless, Sergeant Mulrooney was another matter entirely.

  “This is bloody well insufferable!” he bellowed at us, his face ferocious with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are, wheedling your way in here and disturbing me with this rot in the middle of the night?! This is unconscionable. This is—”

  “Oh, come now, Sergeant,” Colin interrupted, his tone soft and smooth. “Doesn’t our arrival at this ungodly hour stir the least curiosity in you?”

  The man’s frown deepened. “And why would it? Do you think I don’t know why you’re here?”

  “Then do you care so little about your sister?”

  “To hell with you!” he growled. “You rouse me in the middle of the night to judge my character?! I’ll not stand for this.” And with that, he strode to the door with the clear intent to be done with us.

  “Is it shame for your sister’s husband that drives such vehemence from you?” Colin asked, his voice tightening appreciably. “Is that what you would have me understand, sir?”

  Sergeant Mulrooney came to a halt just inside the small room, his posture ramrod straight as he glared out into the hallway, wondering, I presumed, whether he shouldn’t just keep walking. “What would you know of any of that?” he said after a moment, his tone as rigid as his manner.

  “More than you can imagine,” Colin shot back, before adding, “I am an investigator, Sergeant. I am paid quite handsomely to find things out. Now may we have this discussion so our intrusion is not without reason?”

  “I have nothing to add to what you already seem to have learned!” he snapped, his back still toward us.

  “And I should like to judge that for myself. Will you not sit down for even a minute? We have already done the damage to your night.”

  “I shall not,” he seethed.

  Colin glared at me and I tried to encourage him to remain calm with the look in my eyes. As the man had yet to step from the room, I considered that progress. “Very well then,” Colin said brusquely as he stood up. “When did you discover that your brother-in-law had proclivities outside of his marriage?”

  The sergeant didn’t answer for a moment and I thought perhaps he had no intention of doing so, but just as it seemed his silence was the only answer we would get, he slowly turned and leveled a most hateful gaze on Colin. “Is that what it’s to be then, Mr. Pendragon? Euphemisms?” He took a step back into the room, his body hulking in the doorway. “Trevor was an abomination and I have nothing but pity for my sister for shielding him.”

  “Pity, is it?”

  “Her misguided affections made her a casualty in this war.”

  “And was it your war, Sergeant?”

  “It is the war of every God-fearing man, woman, and child. Does that include you, Mr. Pendragon?” His eyes flipped between Colin and me, but I refused to allow even the slightest reaction.

  “Then I don’t believe we share the same God, Sergeant,” Colin fired back. “For mine would never condone such ignorance.”

  Sergeant Mulrooney scoffed at him before, quite suddenly, taking a step back and spitting on the floor. Before either of us could react, he stalked out.

  CHAPTER 33

  For reasons I have never understood, the hour before dawn is always the coldest. Even though I was well insulated in a thick woolen coat that ended well below my knees with a cashmere scarf around my neck and a cap on my head, I could still feel the bracing chill of the predawn air fingering at my bones. I stomped my feet and rocked from side to side as though such antics might truly warm me, but they were of little use. At least the cold was keeping me awake after my woefully brief two-hour nap.

  I was stationed at the fountain outside Buckingham’s main gate scanning for signs of Corporal Bramwood. The only company I had was a bent street cleaner laboring over horse droppings with a shovel and cart. I had begun to suspect that perhaps Corporal Bramwood had chosen this reprehensible time simply because he knew I wouldn’t dare refuse him, that he would show up in an hour or more with a jolly smirk upon his face. Even so, I had given my word and would wait until noon if I had to, god forbid.

  The street cleaner gradually moved farther down the promenade and I braced myself for a protracted wait just as a carriage entered the parade grounds from out of Green Park. I prayed it was Corporal Bramwood. I had thought the young man would arrive on foot, but the carriage was old and well worn, and I decided an enterprising young corporal could commandeer such a benefit for himself. He would likely send it right back out to collect his major.

  I began walking toward the approaching carriage, and just as I guessed it would, it veered in my direction as I reached the cobbled path by the palace gates. I wondered if the young man was surprised that I had kept my word and whether he might, in some small fashion, be disappointed. I pulled Captain Bellingham’s letter from my pocket as the driver brought the carriage to a stop directly beside me. Nothing less would be expected from one of the Queen’s horsemen.

  The door swung wide, and before my eyes could adjust to the darkness within I sensed that something was terribly wrong. Corporal Bramwood’s face was ashen and drawn, his eyes as red as a wound, and for a moment I thought perhaps he had suffered the same sort of sleepless night I had, and that was when Major Hampstead leaned forward with a grand smile upon his face. “What a pleasure to see you so early this morning, Mr. Pruitt.” He leered. “Get the letter, Corporal.”

  Corporal Bramwood’s desperate gaze did not leave my face as he reached out and pulled the letter from my fingers. He looked stricken and neither of us said a word as he leaned back in his seat, looking as though he wished it would swallow him outright.

  “And where is Mr. Pendragon?” the major asked. “Sends you to do the shite errands, eh?”

  “He’s working,” I answered, but it sounded hollow even to me.

  “Well, do me a favor and give him a message, will you?” I nodded mutely. “Given that he has seen fit to coerce one of the more impressionable members of my staff, not to mention denigrating himself by pilfering state property, I have decided it is time to end this charade—”

  “We have stolen nothing,” I interrupted, holding out my empty hands as though that were proof even as the hair on the back of my neck bristled with dread.

  Major Hampstead waved me off with a grunt. “Please don’t demean yourself, Mr. Pruitt. Your willingness to manipulate this young man into disobeying a direct order is venal, and yet I shall overlook it.” He glowered at Corporal Bramwood before sliding his eyes back to me. “But in return for my generosity your Mr. Pendragon will address the newspapermen as quickly as I can assemble them. I will expect him at my office at eleven o’clock. Five hours from now. Do let him know, won’t you?”

  I nodded again, certain my voice would not work.

  “You’re lucky I don’t throw you both in the brig!” the major growled, pounding his fist on the carriage ceiling and setting it in motion at once.

  The door slammed shut as it glided away, leaving me standing there as the first pink tendrils of the rising sun stretched across the sky in an effort to abate the cold. My brain and insides took turns revolting as I made way down the central parade route toward Trafalgar. Time was even a more precious commodity now, yet I could not stop myself from walking back to our flat until a lumbering carriage crossed my path, making it impossible to ignore. Only then did I halfhear
tedly hail it and allow myself to be delivered home with some haste. I paused on the steps of our flat and pulled out my watch: four and a half hours left.

  I let myself in and gently swung the door shut. My head ached and I don’t believe my stomach could have been more sour if I had licked the floor. I poked my head into the kitchen and caught Mrs. Behmoth stirring a pot. She glared at me with a knit brow and said, “Wot?”

  “Something smells good,” I lied.

  “Porridge,” she tsked. “Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course. Colin still home?”

  “ ’E’s in the bath.”

  “Good,” I said for no reason, and got a scowl for my efforts. “And Lady Priscilla?”

  “Asleep in me room, so don’t go disturbin’ ’er. She’s ’ad enough without you pawin’ ’er. Now go on.”

  I moved back to the foyer and looked at the stairs. There was nothing else to do but go up.

  By the time I reached the bathroom door I had already considered a half-dozen ways to break the news to Colin. Even so, as I raised my fist to knock I had yet to settle on the best.

  “What is it?” his voice drifted out.

  “It’s me,” I answered, poking my head inside.

  “Hurry up. Don’t let the cold air in.” He was reclining in the tub with a wet cloth draped across his face. “How did everything go?”

  I closed the door and leaned against it, glad his face was covered. “W-w-well . . . ,” I stammered.

  “He didn’t show up?” Colin mumbled through the cloth.

  “He showed up.” I sucked in a ragged breath. “And Major Hampstead was with him.”

  “Hampstead? What the hell was he doing there?”

  “Looking for me. He knew I had coerced Corporal Bramwood into giving me the letter. The poor young man looked terrified.”

  “Pity.”

  “But that isn’t the worst of it—” My voice cracked and I clumsily cleared my throat. “Because of my manipulation of Corporal Bramwood, the major is demanding that you be at his office at eleven to address the newsmen. I’m so sorry, Colin.”